Cinder and Smoke
by andibeth82
Summary: Baby Bishop whiskey benders with unsuspecting Scottish strangers. A take on preliminary Etta and Simon first meeting. Set pre "Letters of Transit" though this is more of a one-shot deal so no spoilers for anything that happens(happened) during that ep or afterwards (also slight liberties taken with timeline stuffs I guess, but whatever.)


_"Give me your hand_  
_And take what you will tonight, I'll give it as fast_  
_And high as the flame will rise_  
_Cinder and smoke_  
_Some whispers around the trees_  
_The juniper bends_  
_As if you were listening"_

- Iron & Wine, Cinder and Smoke

* * *

Etta's going home alone tonight. Etta always goes home alone.

She went to the bar first because she needed a drink, disregarded those who told her that she needed to curb her problem with alcohol and that one day, whiskey just wouldn't cut it as a suitable dinner. Etta smiles at them all (Etta always _just smiles_), brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and walks down the street because the truth is, they can talk all they want but she'll never listen.

She's learned not to listen and quite frankly, finds that things are easier that way.

There's few people on the street for a Friday night, shadowy figures stuck in alleys and men in uniforms hunched over sidewalks but Etta pays them no attention because Etta can't pay them any attention. It's all part of a world she knows too well, the only one she's ever known where looking too far to the left will get you kidnapped and looking too far to the right will get you killed.

Or worse.

Tune out. Shut down. Repeat. Etta always _just repeats_. She turns down another street and pushes open the door to the bar, bee lining towards her usual spot where in one streamlined motion she sits and places an order for a shot. It's only after she reaches into her jacket pocket that she realizes there's nothing there.

_Shit._

"No worries mate. I'll pay."

It's his accent that she picks up on first, barely discernable among a mouthful of apologetic words. She hesitates for a moment before turning to face the man behind the voice, watches as he hands the bartender a fistful of green bills the result of which causes another shot glass and a bottle to be placed before her. Etta blinks once in slight surprise, shoots a glance in his direction and offers a tight smile.

"Thanks. I owe you. That is, if you even like whiskey."

"Who doesn't like whiskey?" The man slides into the nearest open seat and while she's not normally one for company, she finds she can't really tell him to leave. Wordlessly, she passes the bottle and sizes him up as he pours half a glass, eyes following the progression of liquid as it climbs along the inside of the cup.

"I'm Simon. You got a name or something?"

And at that, she finally laughs a little, meets his outstretched hand.

"Etta."

"One half of Henry, eh? Fancy that." He moves a little closer and she rolls her eyes, pushes back in her chair.

"Its just Etta." The response is curt but he doesn't seem to be bothered and at that she turns, unable to help herself.

"Are you Resistance?"

Simon raises an eyebrow, eyeballs the gun strapped loosely to its holster and half-hidden by the folds of her leather jacket. He leans into the table. "Would you kill me if I was?"

Etta pauses and reaches for her shot, letting one finger trace the rim. "I'd kill you if you weren't," she says quietly, a small smile breaking onto her face. She picks up the glass, downs its contents and refills. Simon lowers his head as he repeats the action, a matching grin spreading over his features.

"Well then. Guess we have something in common…Etta."

She's slightly bemused, slightly intrigued but chooses to ignores the not-so-subtle banter, concentrating instead on the bottle in front of her and on changing the subject. One leg crosses the other under the table, a combat booted foot brushing against the knife tucked just underneath the flap.

"So why are you here on a Friday night having a whiskey bender?"

"Better question is, why are _you_ here?"

It's not something she's used to (at least, not from people who aren't on her side), people talking back and throwing questions in her face. For a moment she's caught off guard, runs her tongue over her teeth, and contemplates whether to respond with the truth or with one of her many covers. She eventually decides on the former because why the hell not.

"It's my dinner," and she swears she'll kill him if he makes a smart-ass remark in response. To her surprise, he doesn't retort.

"Yeah. Mine too."

Something about the way he forms his answer intrigues her and she turns to face him head on, half a shot of whiskey still in hand. She looks down before passing it over.

"Bad day?"

Simon chuckles dryly in response. "You could say that. No, actually, not really a bad day." He pauses, letting his palms settle on the table and she notes the faint red of a newly acquired gash on the back of his right hand. As she moves her gaze, he seems to sense her curiosity and pulls his long sleeved shirt lower over his skin. "Just not my day."

"Yeah." Etta thinks then of dreams that turn into nightmares, of dandelions and parks and blonde hair, of Observers and of crying in the basement and whiskey bottles that sometimes seem to be her only reprieve when things get too much.

"Not mine, either."

She raises his glass as they clink each other softly and there's another spell of silence before Simon speaks. It takes a moment for Etta to realize he's talking about the bullet hanging from her neck.

"Memento, right?"

"Something like that." She loops one hand around the chain, hoping the quiet tone will ward off any future question but Simon presses on anyway.

"Thought so. See, you can learn a lot about a person by paying attention to what they wear. How they react. Movement of their eyes, mouths, you know - that sort of thing." He leans closer, swinging his glass forward with a sharp flick of his wrist. "And if there's anything this fucked up world has taught me, it's that no one is really what they seem."

It's strange, its really strange Etta thinks (Etta always _just thinks_) being here in this bar that she normally frequents alone, sharing conversation with this man she hardly knows who seems to be pegging her with nary a hint of doubtfulness. And yet there's something about his presence that feels almost comforting, as if his company was what she needed without even knowing it. She opens her mouth to respond as he twitches suddenly, the device pressed against his jeans lighting up in alert.

"Ah." Simon shakes his head and reaches down to silence the ringing phone. "And that'd be my ride. Can never be too careful with all those Observers, you know." He winks once, sliding off the stool.

"You'll get back okay, then? Not too much whiskey?"

Etta lets out a small laugh, drags one hand against her mouth in response. If she had a nickel for the number of times people worried about her, about poor little Etta, about the girl who just didn't know when to give up…

She leans back, bites down on a smile and regards him with a careful look.

"I'll be fine."

"Right." Simon holds her gaze for slightly longer than she thinks is necessary before nodding once and shrugging on his jacket. "See you later, Etta."

She watches him walk away, one hand coming up to graze her neck again, small fingers sliding in and out around the heavy silver chain. A few moments later she pushes the bottle back towards the bar, steadies herself against the ground, and heads towards the door.

Etta's going home tonight. Etta always _just goes home_.

But maybe she won't tomorrow.


End file.
